


A Christmas Princess

by Jupiter_Ash



Series: The Tales of Eden Cottage [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Outsider, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash
Summary: Sara had always known that her uncle was a narrow-minded bigoted arsehole, she just hadn’t realised he was an idiot as well.Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, her uncle’s idiocy led Sara all the way to a cosy Christmas cottage in the South Downs.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Tales of Eden Cottage [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1434391
Comments: 114
Kudos: 1108
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	A Christmas Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Please note name pronunciation. In my head, Sara is pronounced as if it rhymes with Zara and Tara. However, I am aware that some people pronounce it the same as Sarah. I am also aware that the common pronunciation of the name from where it originates from in terms of this story in also pronounced Sarah. So please pick whichever pronunciation you prefer. ☺
> 
> And thank you to Geekoncaffeine for the always appreciated beta.

Sara had always known that her uncle was a narrow-minded bigoted arsehole, she just hadn’t realised he was an idiot as well. 

Unfortunately, he was also the executor to her grandmother’s estate, and no one bothered to tell her anything.

Which meant she was already too late.

“Gone? What do you mean they’re gone?!” she exclaimed in shock. 

Of all the outcomes she had expected, all that she had prepared herself for, this was not one of them. It had taken her time and a huge amount of courage to even go to her uncle and ask him, but apparently the worst had already happened.

For a brief moment she wasn’t even sure that her uncle would answer her. He had already made it clear that he was doing her a great favour by taking time out of his impressively busy schedule to see her, so what more could she possibly want, was what his expression said. But then he had always looked down on her, even before.

“Gone as gone,” he said dismissively. “Sold. I’ve sold them.”

Sold? He had sold them? He had sold Grandmamma’s books? Her library? Her pride and joy? He had sold them?

“What? All of them?” she asked more out of hope than anything else.

“Every last one of the dusty, wretched things,” her uncle said dismissively. “Cleared the room out. Job lot. Good price too. The swanky git said he didn’t have time to go through them, so we did a deal.”

She thought it was a bit much her uncle calling anyone a swanky git. 

“Of course I got the better end of the deal. Got to dump the whole lot on him and he’s paying for it. Even got him up another grand while I was at it. Did a bank transfer there and then. He even agreed to take that measly old rocking chair as well. Saved me from having to dump it.”

Sara’s heart dropped even further. She had loved that rocking chair. She had been kind of hoping that maybe she would be able to persuade her uncle to let her have it. It looked like that wasn’t to be either.

“Probably liked it because he was one of your lot,” her uncle continued.

She blinked at him not really wanting to know what exactly he was getting at there, but pretty much sure of the answer anyway.

“You know, a queer. A poof. Skinny jeaned and effeminate,” her uncle continued, pretty much confirming everything she had been thinking.

“Definitely one of your ever increasingly ridiculous letters.”

By which he was of course referring to LGBTQIA+. Or as he had put it, one of her lot.

“Do you have a name for him?” she asked.

It was a long shot, but since a bank transfer had been involved, there must have been a name, but her uncle had lost interest already.

“Oh probably somewhere,” he said dismissively. “Although what’s it to you? The books were just dust collecting clutter, and I got a good price, so good riddance to them.”

What were they to her? There was no way she could ever explain it to him.

“Even got him to pay more for delivery. Shame really, would have been something to see if he could get it all into that old Bentley.”

Sara blinked. Delivery. Right. If they had gone for a delivery then there must have been a name, and even better than that, an address.

She didn’t bother saying goodbye to her uncle. She doubted he even noticed that she had gone. Or that he even cared. They didn’t have that sort of relationship. They never had and now there was no chance they ever would. 

If she wanted to get any of those books back, she would have to go to someone who might actually help her.

“Oh hello, Ja-ah-Zara.”

“Sara,” she corrected gently, but appreciated the effort. “Hello Aunty Heather.”

They did the whole fake kiss thing. She had never been particularly close to her aunt, but it was a considerably better relationship than the one she had with her uncle.

“I was just speaking with Uncle Harold,” she said. “He said all of Grandmamma’s books were bought by a single gentleman.”

“Oh I don’t think he was single, dear,” her aunt said. “Had a partner with him. A male partner, but I’m sure you know all about those types. Very well dressed, the partner. Waistcoat and bowtie and everything. You just don’t see a nice bowtie so much anymore these days.”

“No, sorry,” Sara correctly quickly before her aunt could go off on one about how fashion was better back in the olden days. “I meant single as in he was the only person who bought the books.”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed,” her aunt said. “He bought them all. Paid a pretty penny for them, let me tell you. Between you and me, I think he was just doing it to make his partner happy, the one in the waistcoat and bowtie. You see, he didn’t strike me as the book type. His partner on the other hand-”

“Uncle Harold said they asked to have the books delivered,” she said, trying to get to the point.

“Yes, yes, they did,” her aunt confirmed. “And a good thing too as that car of theirs was far too lovely to get all mucky with the dust and dirt from those books. A classic Bentley it was. I haven’t seen one like that in such a long time. Your grandfather had one just like it, back in the 30s-“

“You don’t happen to still have the address they wanted it delivered to?” she asked desperately.

“The address? Oh yes, of course. I have it here somewhere. London it was. I remember thinking it was one of those funny places. Ah yes, here it is. They left a business card. They had originally asked for somewhere near the south coast, but your uncle refused that, so they compromised on London. Oh, yes, a bookshop, which makes sense since they were buying books after all. And Soho of all places. Respectable now of course, but I remember when that was quite the questionable area.”

It was all Sara could do not to snatch the card out of her aunt’s hand.

  
**A. Z. Fell & Co.**  
**Antiquarian and Unusual Books**

****

Beneath it was indeed an address in Soho, London.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she breathed as she bent to give her aunt the same fake kisses in farewell. 

It was possible that she wouldn’t be too late after all.

*

She was too late.

She had started by doing her research on the shop. The shop was somewhat obscure, but obscure just meant that someone on the internet had opinions about it somewhere, and that somewhere turned out to be Yelp.

The reviews were… well they were varied. She was pretty certain it was the right place since the general description of the owner – Mr Fell? – was of a bowtie wearing, middle aged gay man, who was part fussy and part adorable, while his partner was more than once described as a ‘twink’*.

_*She was not judging in anyway. Age difference shouldn’t stand in the way of love, provided it was all consensual, mutual and didn’t involve one party taking advantage of the other. So if the ‘fussy’ bowtie wearing bookseller had a much younger boyfriend/partner/significant other, then good for him. Whatever worked for them. And he certainly wouldn’t be the first._

The clincher, however, was the mention of the classic Bentley that was apparently very much not for sale*.

_*Very, very, VERY much not for sale, to be more accurate._

So the good news was that she had located the right place. 

The bad news was that the phone number for the shop* was going to answerphone. She left a message in the hope that Mr Fell, or someone, would get back to her, but no one did, and hours passed and then days passed, then more days passed, and then even more days and she realised that there was nothing for it but to go to the shop itself and pay it a visit.

_*Which had been an experience in itself trying to hunt down._

Unfortunately*, there was no way she could do that until her uni term had finished and she’d gotten all of her course essays and assignments in, which meant it was another couple of weeks before she could go to the shop itself, which meant that by the time she did manage to find her way there, it was well into December and she was already too late.

 _*There had been a lot of unfortunatelys, unfortunately._

**I am afraid this shop is quite definitely closed at present,** the sign in the window said, **and will remain so for the foreseeable future. Apologies.** Signed, **A. Z. Fell, proprietor.**

And then in a different handwriting, **Don’t bother breaking in, there’s nothing of worth here, and we would still find you. You have my word.** Signed, **A. J. Crowley, worse than your worst nightmare.**

After that there was nothing. There was no forwarding address, no contact number, nothing. After all of this, it was all going to end outside a closed up shop, in a street, on a grey miserable day.

If it weren’t for the fact she was far too reservedly English, she might have given in and cried there and then.

As it was, all she could do was stare blankly at the door and try and decide what she might possibly do now.

“They’re gone, I’m afraid,” a voice suddenly said from behind her. “Retired. In a way.”

The woman who stood there, umbrella sheltering her from the sadly typically British light rain, had a soft wistful look on her face as she looked at the door sign. There was something almost familiar about her, although afterwards, Sara would be unable to recall anything about her except for the tartan patterned umbrella and the bright red scarf around her neck.

“Yes, I, uh, was sort of gathering that,” Sara replied, looking longingly back at the door just in case another note had somehow miraculously appeared telling her everything she needed to know while she hadn’t been looking. 

“Uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where they might have gone to?” she asked, figuring that it was worth a shot. “Only Mr. Fell has a book that used to belong to my grandmother and I was hoping he might consider selling it back to me. It was my uncle you see, he sold all of Grandmamma’s books, and Mr. Fell bought them, which is good, because at least then he’s likely to look after them, but there was this one that was particularly special to me, and I’m really hoping he still has it.”

And that she would be able to afford whatever price he asked for it.

“Your grandmamma was special to you then, child?” the lady asked kindly.

Sara nodded. 

“I’m sorry for you loss.”

Sara whispered her thanks, overcome suddenly once again by the grief she still had within her. Yes, her grandmamma had been ninety-eight when she has passed, so it hadn’t been unexpected, but it still felt too soon.

“As it happens,” the stranger said, a small smile on her face, “I firmly believe in the ‘ask and it will be given to you’ philosophy for life.”

The phrase sounded familiar, Sara thought. Possibly something her grandmamma had said over the years.

“Here, this is their new address. You’re going to have to get a train and a taxi, but I promise the effort will be more than worth it.”

She stared blankly as she was passed a folded piece of paper.

“I would suggest going next Saturday. I know it’s nearly Christmas, but I guarantee they will be both there, and more besides. And if they ask how you found them, tell them,” the stranger paused for a moment, her lips tilting into a soft smile as if she was remembering something. “Tell them their mother sends her love.”

Their mother?

Sara squinted slightly, but honestly the stranger was sort of impossible to age. Probably not Mr. Fell’s mother though, not if he was middle-aged as the Yelp reviews had suggested, so possibly his partner’s then, the so called ‘twink’.

Unless it was something else?

“Thank you,” she managed, somewhat overwhelmed as she looked down at the piece of paper now in her hand. “How can I-” she trailed off unsure of how to finish that sentence.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way,” the stranger said. “Be kind, be gentle, and try and forgive your uncle, if not for your own sake, then in memory of your grandmamma.”

Forgive her uncle? After everything that he had said and done?

“And Sara-”

She looked up at the use of her name.

“You are beautiful, both outside and in. Always remember that. But it’s who you are inside that really counts. Merry Christmas.”

And then the stranger was gone, drifting into the crowds and quickly lost from sight.

Sara stared after them for a moment, not entirely sure what had just happened there, but apparently something had. Something that even might have been significant, if only she knew how or why.

She did, however, apparently have a new lead, if the piece of paper in her hand was anything to go by.

 **Eden Cottage,** she read, **Little Aven, West Sussex.**

*

Eden Cottage turned out to be the most adorable, sweetest, idyllic place ever. It was like one of those perfect village homes in the English village of the year. It was even decorated nicely for the holidays, with a string of white lights going round the door which also had what looked like a rustic homemade wreath on it.

The currently unlit traditional menorah in the window was more of a surprise though.

As beautiful as the cottage was to her, the sight of a classic Bentley parked in the driveway was even better, because it meant she had got the right place.

She wasn’t too proud to admit that doubts had crept in over the past week. Who was that stranger who had given her the address? Could she really be certain that it was in fact the right address? And even if, after all of this, it was the right address, was there really a chance that Mr. Fell would both still have the book and would be willing to sell it to her for the limited amount of money she currently had?

The train ride down also hadn’t helped, because it had just been yet another expense at an already expensive time of year, and she had no guarantees other than the word of a stranger that it would be worth it.

What if she was just doomed to failure? Just like with so much else of her life?

No, no she couldn’t think like that. She had come too far. Spent far too much time and money on this already. 

She tried not to wince as she paid the taxi fare, and then it was just her, outside the cottage.

And it was far too cold to be just standing around.

Taking a deep breath, she made her way carefully up the driveway to the front door, hesitated, raised her hand, hesitated again, took another deep breath, and then pressed the doorbell.

A semi musical rendition of ‘Ode to Joy’ was not what she had been expecting, but someone inside was apparently finding it hilarious if the laughter was anything to go by.

The man who answered the door was really not what she had been expecting, but then anyone would be hard pushed to expect a skinny guy in what looked like women’s jeans, a dark red top, a somewhat fluffy Santa hat, and, almost explicably considering the time of year and the location, a pair of sunglasses.

She was guessing that he wasn’t the Mr. Fell she was looking for, although if he was the ‘twink’ he was older than she thought he would be.

It also quickly became clear that whoever he was expecting, she wasn’t it either.

“Bit old for a carol singer, aren’t you?” he said after looking her up and down. “Or is it just trick or treating you get too old for?”

“Uh,” she somehow managed to say, and then because her brain was still processing what he had said and how she should respond, she repeated the “uh,” but then managed to add in, “I’m not a carol singer.”

The man raised an eyebrow above his sunglasses. “You don’t say,” he almost drawled. “Uni student, though, right,” he added. “So which of our wonderful new neighbours do you belong to?”

“Uhm,” she tried again, painfully aware that her mouth may have been moving without sound, while she forced her brain to reengage. “Not a neighbour,” she somehow managed. “I’m not from around here,” she added, her brain now apparently on a roll. “I’m looking for a book. A particular book. An old one. It was my grandmother’s. My uncle sold it. You bought it. Or your partner did. I’m hoping I might be able to buy it back.”

The man at the door continued to look at her but between the hat and the sunglasses it was impossible to tell what his expression was. Well, other than the still raised eyebrow. Then he was turning away and for a moment she feared he was about to shut the door on her, but then he started to shout behind him.

“Oi, Angel,” the man called back over his shoulder, “one for you.”

Then he was turning back to her. “You’d best come in then.”

*

The cottage was just as homely on the inside as it had been on the outside. 

Bookshelves covered walls, filled with books of all ages. Artwork hung on other walls, including a rather stunning sketch of the Mona Lisa, over which was currently draped a string of tinsel. Decorations were also strung carefully over some rather verdant looking plants. She couldn’t see a Christmas tree though. 

Most surprising though was the corner where there was a boy wearing a yellow Pikachu hat and matching slippers, curled up on the same rocking chair that she had used to curl up on when she had been younger, reading a book she had used to read, and for a moment she felt breathless, as if she had been punched in the stomach.

Then a third figure suddenly appeared, from what looked to be the kitchen, a tea towel in his hands, and, as if not wanting to be left out of the Christmas hat spirit, wearing a fluffy white halo headband over his pale almost curly hair.

“Hello,” he said with the loveliest of smiles. “What can I do for you, young lady?”

“Wouldn’t be too nice, angel,” the other man said, sauntering past to somehow fold himself onto the nearby sofa, “she’s after one of your books.”

“My books?”

“One of the books you bought recently from my grandmother’s estate,” Sara said quickly before the smile could fade into something far more unhappy. She had read the Yelp reviews. She knew how difficult it was to get him to part with any of his books. 

“It’s just it meant a lot to me,” she continued, “and my uncle sold it with all the others without telling anyone first. And you bought it. And I know you run a bookshop, or used to, but I’m hoping you still have it and haven’t sold it already. I’d really like it back. I’ll pay. I have money. It’s just, it’s the only thing I’d really have of her.”

The frown had softened into the kindest and gentlest of expressions, and then he was asking which book it was, and nodded knowingly when she told him.

“I know just where it is,” he said. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll just go and fetch it.”

And then he was trotting off into another room and she was left with the older than expected twink and the quiet boy in the corner.

“I’m guessing it was that clearance sale in Buckinghamshire,” the not-quite-a-twink said waving a hand to a nearby armchair for her to sit in. “Your grandmother’s house I presume?”

She nodded.

“So the annoying guy in all that tweed was your uncle then,” he continued.

She nodded again.

“Bit of an arse, isn’t he?”

She snorted. She couldn’t help it.

“I met the guy for about fifteen minutes,” he continued, “and I wanted to punch him. Thought he knew everything. Clearly didn’t have a clue. No idea how you put up with him.”

“I don’t,” Sara admitted. “Talking to him about the books was the longest conversation I’ve had with him for years, and it took me weeks just to psych myself up for that. I have always been a sort of a disappointment I suppose, even more so now.” She looked down at her hands.

“Crowley,” the man suddenly said, making her look up again. “My name. Anthony J. Crowley, to be more precise. Chose it myself.”

Even with the sunglasses it was as if he was giving her a knowing look. One of her lot indeed.

“When I asked my uncle about who had bought the books, he described you as a queer, effeminate, skinny jeaned poof,” she admitted. 

The eyebrows arched above the sunglasses, the lips curving into a sort of smirk. “Did he now?”

“Think he was a bit jealous of your car though,” she added.

“He’d be so lucky,” he snorted. “Too good for the likes of him.”

There was a sort of comradery in their shared smile, and then the other gentleman was back – Mr Fell, she presumed – bright and shiny in his tartan bowtie and fluffy halo, a small stack of familiar looking books in his hand.

“Yes, I knew I had seen it and put it aside somewhere safe,” he was saying, somehow a whirl of activity. “Not quite a first edition, but an early one indeed, and still in such good condition. Frances was always such a lovely writer. No wonder you wanted it back. So here you go, for you my dear.”

And then he was handing over the book she had feared she would never see again. 

**A Little Princess** , the front of the book said. **From the author of Little Lord Fauntleroy**. 

It was exactly how she remembered it, all the way down to the very small indent on the top corner. 

“And I believe this also belongs with you,” he said. “It was slipped into one of the others.”

She was still looking at the book as something flat was pressed into her hand. A photograph, she realised, one she had never know had existed. It was a photo of her when she had been about eight or nine, curled up on the rocking chair, book in her lap, her head bent in such a way that her still short hair managed to fall long enough to shield some of her face. 

Turning it over, her eyes prickled as she saw her name as it once had been, but now crossed out with her new name, with Sara, written next to it.

“Grandmamma was the only person in the family who really understood,” she said quietly as she stared at the photo again. “I loved it when we got to stay with her because she would let me read all the books I wasn’t normally allowed to read. All the books that everyone else deemed weren’t right for… for a _boy_ to read. This was my favourite. _A Little Princess._ So when I was choosing my new name, I thought of her, I thought of Sara.”

The smile was kind and knowing. 

“It’s a lovely name, Sara,” Mr. Fell said. “And a lovely choice.” 

She nodded absently, running her finger across the front of the book.

“How much do you want for it?” she asked after a moment. “I’ve got cash.” She reached for the bag slung across her body. “I hope I’ve got enough. It’s all I’ve got right now, but I can get more, in the New Year, if you promise not to sell it to anyone else before then.” 

“Oh my dear, no,” she heard Mr. Fell say, her heart sinking as she realised that after all of this he wasn’t going to sell it back to her. 

“I could never accept your money.”

The Yelp reviews had warned her. She should have known.

“They belong solely to you, my dear. I was only ever meant to be a temporary keeper of them.”

What?

“Them?” she asked somewhat bewildered.

“Of course,” he said, his smile somehow deepening. “We wouldn’t want to break up the set now, would we? Here you go.”

It was with some astonishment that she found herself being passed familiar copies of _The Secret Garden_ and _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ as well. 

She stared at them blankly. “For me?” she said somewhat dumbly. “No money?” 

“For you,” the man in the angel halo confirmed. “No money. I believe it would have been what your grandmother would have wanted.”

She was going to cry. She was going to stand in a stranger’s house and cry.

And it was going to be terrible.

Then the boy from the corner was on his feet, tugging on the sleeve of the would-be angel, whispering something in his ear.

The would-be angel’s eyes widen comically at that, his head snapping round to the door he had originally come through.

“Oh the pies!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I forgot about the pies.”

And then he was off, hurrying back to the kitchen, fluffy halo bouncing as he moved.

“The pies will be fine,” Crowley said with a lazy wave of his hand from where he was still slouching on the sofa. “Joshua here was keeping timing of them, weren’t you Joshua?”

The boy gave a small nod and went to curl up again on the rocking chair, quickly engrossing himself back into a familiar copy of _Five Children and It._

Not knowing what else to do, Sara went back to perch on the armchair, turning the books over in her hands, not quite believing what had happened. She had come here in the vague hope that she might walk away with considerably less money but with the book she wanted, but now she had the book, the money and two more books besides. 

And the rocking chair she had so loved was still obviously being used and loved.

“Is he yours?” she asked tentatively, motioning to the reading boy. Neither her uncle nor her aunt had mentioned a kid, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

She was a little taken back when Crowley snorted.

“Heavens no,” he said with a surprising grin. “Godfathers, of a sort, I suppose. Although that didn’t work out too well last time. Honorary uncles?” He pulled a face. “Neighbours’ kid. He sort of adopted us when we moved in. Never been adopted by a kid before, so we thought we’d give it a go. Been working out well so far, hasn’t it, Joshua?”

The kid looked up long enough to give a nod and then went back to reading. 

Crowley just continued to grin.

“Pokémon fan I take it?” she asked carefully.

“Hey, Joshua, what’s the 116th Pokémon?”

“Horsea,” the boy responded without even looking up from the book. “Eats small insects and moss off of rocks. Type, water. Category, dragon. Weaknesses, electric and grass. Evolves into a Seadra, number 117.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow in her direction as if to say, what do you think.

Sara looked back down at the books in her hand, and at the photograph.

“Is he really letting me have these books back for free?” she asked.

It all seemed a little unreal somehow. 

Her uncle had bragged about how much money he had managed to get out of them for all the books, and it wasn’t a small sum. And while her grandmamma had been proud of her collection, surely her uncle had still gotten the best out of the deal. And now they were simply giving some of the books back to her, books that were old enough to be worth something at least. 

Crowley simply shrugged. “Money’s not exactly an issue. If Aziraphale didn’t want to you have them then no amount of money would make him relinquish them. Trust me, even to my eye it was clear that your uncle had no idea what he had there. Not only that, but it kept angel here happy and occupied for days once we got them all. Can’t put a price on that.”

Ah, domestic bliss.

“And of course it means one upping your delightful uncle. Feel free to tell him the next time you see him that he really should have had them independently valued first. But his loss was our gain, and now your gain too,” he added, nodding to the books in her arms.

It was funny really, he had basically just admitted that they had bought all the books for far less than they were worth, but honestly she didn’t really mind. Some of the money would have been lost anyway to inheritance tax, and the rest would have been split with the rest of the estate. Yes, her mum might have gotten a little bit more, but not enough for it to been particularly noticeable, and at least this way she knew that the books were in safe and loving hands. 

As was the rocking chair.

She was about to thank them again, when the door suddenly opened and the would-be angel was back, his face beaming as he carried a tray filled with bowls and a plate laden with still steaming golden, homemade mince pies. 

“Now, Sara,” the would-be angel said, his eyes bright, a smudge of flour across his cheek, “would you like yours with cream, ice cream, or brandy butter?”

*

She stayed for mince pies. It had seemed unnecessarily rude not to, and it made her book rescuing would-be angel so incredibly happy to be able to share his homemade delights, which were honestly amongst the best she had ever tasted*.

 _*There had been a lot of practising._

Then she stayed for freshly made mulled wine – a non-alcoholic version for the boy – and somehow there was talking and laughter as well.

She found herself telling them about her grandmamma, about her visits to the house and her experiences of reading the forbidden books. She told them how out of all of her family, her grandmamma had been the quickest to adjust to her change in identity and had never once slipped up and used her old name. She told them about how much the hormones had made a difference, but also how long the waiting lists were for everything else. She told them about her university course and about finding friends who accepted her for who she was now, but also how difficult some days could be when her dysphoria was at its height.

She wasn’t sure why she told them so much, but for some reason they were just so incredibly easy to talk to. She could joke with Crowley about the difficulty of picking a new name. They shared sympathetic but knowing looks when she talked about having a wider family that would have preferred it if you conformed, or even better, if you never existed at all. They even laughed about the difficulties involved in managing long hair.*

 _*There was a reason, Aziraphale admitted, why he had tended to keep his short, but he had always greatly admired Crowley’s at whatever length._

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was being around an older queer couple who had seen it all before*.

_*Crowley, it turned out, seemed to identify as gender queer or genderfluid, although he didn't use those words, but he clearly understood many of the issues she had gone through._

It wasn’t until she glanced out the window that she realised just how late and dark it had become.

Even having been unsure of what reaction would greet her when she first came to the house – from the door being slammed in her face, to the book having already been sold – she hadn’t ever envisioned spending the entire afternoon there, and she still had a several hour journey home again.

At least she didn’t have to worry about the taxi fare back to the train station, she thought, reaching for her mobile. She still had all the money she had brought with her to buy the book with.

“Don’t bother,” she heard Crowley say as she found the number for the taxi firm she had used to originally drop her off. “I’ll run you back to the station. It’ll be quicker.”

She stared at him in amazement.

“Oh he’s quite the safe driver,” her would-be angel reassured her, somewhat mistaking her surprise for something else. “And he knows how important it is to drive safely around here, don’t you, Crowley?”

There was obviously a story there.

“Now, why don’t you let me take those and wrap them up all carefully for you,” the would-be angel said, reaching a hand out towards where the books sat on the nearby coffee table.

For a moment, Sara wanted to decline, not wanting them to leave her sight again, but then she shook herself, telling herself to be sensible. He was hardly going to steal them away from her, not after finding and giving them to her. And he was so kind.

“Back in a jiffy,” he said, books carefully in hand, a beaming smile on his face.

“Yes,” Crowley said almost archly once the door had shut, “he honestly is naturally like that. I would say it’s his nature, but then you should meet the rest of his family. Actually, scrap that, no one should have that inflicted on them. Peace on earth and good will to all men, my arse.”

That really sounded like another story.

“And if he offers you some of his lavender pouches, it’s probably easier if you accept. They’re homemade. Since retirement he’d been trying out lots of new hobbies and we had rather a lot of lavender to get rid of. Now we have a lot of pouches.”

Sara nodded.

They fell back into a comfortable quiet, and then the door opened and her would-be angel was back, the books and photograph carefully tied up with string and finished with festive ribbon in one hand, tote bag in the other. 

“I’ll just put them in here for you,” he said, motioning to the tote bag and turning away to use the writing table to one side. “All jolly and safe for you. We certainly wouldn’t want them damaged after you’ve come all this way.”

He handed the bag over to her with a flourish.

“Now,” he said, clasping his hands together, “do you by any chance like the smell of lavender?”

*

The Bentley was beautiful and Crowley certainly had no problem with putting his foot down once they were out of the village. It didn’t seem that long at all before they were pulling up at the train station she had come in to.

“I never asked,” he said staring ahead and tapping at the steering wheel, “but just how did you find us?” He turned his head to look at her. “We didn’t give your uncle that address.”

“Oh,” she said. “I completed forgot to say. It was the lady I met, at the bookshop.”

“The… _lady_ … at the _bookshop_?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Yes. She was really kind. Obviously could see I was upset, and once I told her what had happened, she gave me your address. Can’t remember what she looked like, but she had a tartan umbrella and a lovely big red scarf, and she told me to tell you, to tell you that your, uh, your mother sends her love.”

Because obvious the lady she had met couldn’t be their actual mother. She hadn’t nearly looked old enough to have middle-aged children, but maybe she knew one of their mothers. After all, how else would she have known their address?

It was then that she realised that Crowley had gone almost completely still, to the point where she couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.

“I’m… sorry,” she said tentatively, suddenly remembering their previous conversations about problems with family. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’ssss fine,” he said, looking back at the steering wheel. “It’s… ineffable.”

She had absolutely no idea what that meant, but it obvious meant something to him.

“Uh, thank you again, for the ride and the books and everything,” she offered. “Please, uh, tell your, uh, angel thank you again as well.”

He nodded, offering a small but genuine looking smile. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas.”

*

She didn’t even have that long to wait for the next train, and she managed to snag two seats to herself.

She managed to wait a whole three minutes after the train had started moving before reaching for the tote bag. She had to smile as she read what was written across it: It’s what’s inside that counts.

She’d heard that recently, although she couldn’t remember where.

There was something delightfully old fashioned about having books wrapped up in string and ribbon, even more so when with the smell of lavender. It was only when she went to pick the bag up again that she realised there was something else in there.

Frowning, she reached in and drew out another book, separate from the others, but also bound with ribbon. Although in hardback and without a dust jacket so it didn’t look exactly like the common version, she recognised it immediately. Who wouldn’t? It was one of the most famous books, with one of the most famous names, from one of the most famous authors in the world. She had a copy herself, of course. Two, if you included her kindle edition. She was, therefore, a little confused as to why, out of all the other books in her grandmamma’s collection, she was being given this one.

The answer, she supposed, lay with the note that accompanied it, slipped down the front behind the bow.

She cautiously slid it out, being careful not to ruin the bow, marvelling at the rather lovely handwriting. And he had used an ink pen and everything.

She opened it up.

 _‘Dearest Sara,_

_Please accept this as an additional gift from your grandmother’s lovely collection. It was with some delighted surprise that I found this in amongst all the others. In truth, I was not completely sure what to do with it, until your arrival. I am quite sure, however, that your grandmother would want for you to have it. Consider it your inheritance. What you now do with it, however, is quite up to you._

_I have not had a chance to have it properly valued, but if you take it to Mr Terrance Worthing-Smith of the address below and mention my name, he will gladly value it for you. He is a rather smashing fellow and his advice will be invaluable._

_I have done my own research on this, with dear Crowley’s help and something called ‘The Google’, so I have confirmed that this is a genuine first edition. With only 500 in the original print run, it is known in the business as_ The Holy Grail. _Personally, I prefer to refer to it as_ The Golden Snitch. 

_Best of luck. It has been a blessing to meet you._

_We hope you have the merriest of Christmases and a blessed New Year._

_Peace and Blessings!_

_**A. Z. Fell** – Specialist in Antiquarian and Unusual Books_

_P.S. – feel free to tell your uncle that this book alone was worth at least six times more than we paid for everything. He really should have had them properly valued. ‘Dusty, wretched things’ indeed! Terribly rude of him!_

Six times more than they had paid?

Holy shit!

A hardback, first edition copy of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_? 

Holy everything! 

And they have given it to her?

They had simply handed it back over to her, along with two other books she hadn’t asked for, and the one she would have gladly paid for.

The tears did come this time, but they were happy tears, so happy.

Thank you, Grandmamma, she thought as she clutched all the books to her chest, letting her hair fall across her face as she had tried to do as a child. 

Thank you Mr. Fell, she thought, for being such an unexpected angel. The money from the book would open up opportunities she never thought she would have, whether for university, surgery, or simply no longer being beholden to her wider family. 

And thank you, strange lady, she thought, for being there at the shop at the right time and giving me their address.

And she almost thought she heard a voice in her mind response to say, ‘You’re welcome, my child’.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> Any irony raised by this fic due to recent comments by a certain famous author was not originally intentional. It is intended now though! And I make no apology for supporting our trans family.
> 
> Regarding the rest of the series, there are lots more stories to come, including the second part of Jo's story. I also need to tell the story of the rest of Christmas as well, but stuff in RL threw out my writing schedule, so it'll probably be after Christmas now.
> 
> Hope you all have a great Christmas / Hanukkah / Winter Solstice / Yuletide / other, and a happy New Year!
> 
> See you soon! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Christmas Princess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532010) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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